


Hid and Sought

by mickie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark, Dark Sherlock Holmes, Drug Use, Homicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 14:27:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19021795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: Sherlock is saved from a suicide mission in Eastern Europe but can he be saved from himself?





	Hid and Sought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> This story is dark. There is no traditional happy ending. Please read the tags.  
> This is my May entry for the Sherlock Challenge on Tumblr. The prompt is **light**. Fabricdragon gave me the additional prompts of halo and wicked.

**Hid and Sought**

Bored. BoredBoredBored. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom and sighed. He couldn’t focus on much. The dream was still too vivid. He’d been on the airplane and had decided that taking a bit too much heroin was a much better way to go than being tortured and shot in Eastern Europe. 

He’d almost succeeded. But then Moriarty had done something that forced jolly old decrepit England to call him back. Mycroft had blathered on and on about it but Sherlock hadn’t been able to follow. It didn’t matter; he’d figure it out when he came down. The part that made his heart soar was that Jim Moriarty was not only alive but had intervened to save him.

Sherlock had given Mycroft a rambling explanation about the cases of Emelia Ricoletti and Lady Carmichael and proved what everyone already knew: that Moriarty was dead. Mycroft had seemed thoroughly befuddled by the explanation but believed the conclusion. It was easier for him that way. He and Dr. Watson had brought Sherlock back to Baker street and were now puttering about in the kitchen.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock felt himself floating and brought his mind back to the Victorian times. It was dark but the light of the full moon illuminated the church courtyard. “Don’t forget me,” a voice whispered in his mind. Sherlock turned and saw Jim Moriarty, in a pristine white Victorian wedding dress, no longer bloodied or torn, eyes shining mischievously, leaning against a gnarled tree.

“How could I?” Sherlock whispered as he saw what seemed to be a halo forming over Jim’s head. “You’re so very wicked.” 

“Oh, Sherlock…” The voice became jumbled and then Moriarty laughed. Sherlock’s eyes jarred open.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said from the doorway of his bedroom. Sherlock looked at him and then groaned while trying to decide if a blurry, fuzzy, and floating Mycroft was better or worse than a normal one. He groaned. “I made some tea,” Mycroft stated and held up a mug. “The bergamot and orange zest will settle your stomach.”

Sherlock pulled the blanket over his face. Mycroft sighed. “I must be off, work and all, but the good Dr. Watson is making you a cheese toastie. Please try to eat a few bites.”

Sherlock mumbled something that he hoped sounded like agreement and mentally ushered both Mycroft and John out of the apartment. Although tea and a sandwich didn’t sound like a horrible idea.

*~*~*

( _the following morning_ )  
Are you going to be alright?” John asked. 

Sherlock looked up from the microscope and stared at John as though that were a ridiculous question. After having tea and the sandwich the previous evening, Sherlock had managed to sleep fitfully through the night even though he dreamed of James Moriarty. Mrs. Hudson had stopped by in the morning with bacon butties and now John was leaving for work. “Fine,” he replied and looked back at the microscope slide. It was a drosophilid larvae found on a corpse that Lestrade had sent him. Boring.

“Do you think you’ll need me for the case?”

No. Definitely not. No. “I’ve got it solved,” Sherlock murmured without looking up. “It’s the wrong family for a scuttle fly so it’s not likely the corpse was there as long as they think it was. Once they reevaluate the timeline for death, it’s clear the nephew did it and tried to pin blame on the inhome care provider.”

“Ah, of course...” John seemed unconvinced. 

“It was obvious.”

“Well, I’ll be at St. Pancras today if you need me,” John said. Sherlock nodded but didn’t reply. He kept staring through the microscope with the hope that John would be on his way quickly. “I’ll pick up milk on the way home, yeah?”

“Milk is good,” Sherlock mumbled and then started tapping out a text to Lestrade. John opened the door, left, and Sherlock listened to his footsteps going down the stairs. “Bloody miracle…”

Boring. Sherlock was more thorough than normal in sending his findings and case notes to Lestrade with the hope that the man might not need further explanations. He didn’t want to be bothered during his next endeavor. He then made tea. Boring but it distracted him for ten more minutes. Afterward, he checked on the location of Mycroft and John. Mycroft was at the office; he might not have left from the night before. Good. John had almost arrived at St. Pancras. Perfect.

After taking a few sips of his tea, he checked all of his stashes. The more obvious ones had been emptied. “You’re such a good brother, Mycroft,” he muttered under his breath. “But I bet you didn’t find all the _clever_ ones.” He checked the medicine cabinet and, sure enough, his large bottle of paracetamol still contained one kit. He resisted the temptation until he could further assess how much he had left.

The one behind the skull painting was gone. Curse Mycroft. The one in John’s first aid kit was also gone. Curse John. The large supply he had stashed inside the hollowed out copy of The Children’s Encyclopedia on his bookshelf was still there. Sherlock smiled gleefully. “No, you did not.”

Sherlock smiled. Good enough. He retrieved the pink phone that he’d hidden inside the clock and sat down on the floor leaning against the wall. The battery was completely dead so Sherlock plugged it into the charger and then, thinking of Jim, in his grey suit, at the trial, at the flat peeling an apple, he shot up while imagining peeling the man out of that suit.

Once the phone had enough charge, he texted Moriarty.

Thank you. -SH

I did miss you. -SH

He set the phone down and savored the crescendo. The rising of serenity and the waning of concern, caring, and the constant hum of his mind deducing something, anything, and everything. The lassitude made existence tolerable. Eventually the back of his head hit something, the wall he was leaning against, and jolted him awake.

Shaking his head to clear it, he picked up his phone and checked locations once more. Both Mycroft and John were where they were supposed to be. “Thank goodness,” Sherlock yelled and then chuckled. “I sound like I’m drunk.” He rose and found his mug of tea. After reheating it, he sent another text.

You there, love? -SH

Laughing at his own frivolousness, he lay on the couch and closed his eyes. Every calculation and deduction that he’d made indicated that Jim Moriarty was still alive. “You better not have abandoned me to this sorry existence, you bastard,” he grumbled while glaring at the pink phone as though daring it to remain silent. After a few moments, it chirped and Sherlock’s heart soared.

Why, Sherlock! I didn’t know you cared. -JM

Sherlock smirked and felt his pulse quicken. Moriarty always did that to him.

I don’t but I’m bored. -SH

You’re welcome BTW. -JM

I didn’t thank you. -SH

Yes, you did. See above. -JM

You’re just as bored without me as I am without you. -SH

Come and play? -JM

Boring. So 2011. See above. -SH

Donovan and Anderson had the day off. -JM

They’ve been shagging. -JM

I’m not about to play identify the disease. -SH

*snicker* All of them. -JM

No doubt. -SH

They’re at Donovan’s. They’re compiling “evidence” against you. -JM

Thanks for the downer. -SH

Sally-dear keeps her field knife in the top right drawer of her desk. -JM

Sherlock stared at the message and then laughed. He knew what Jim was intimating. After so many years of torment, would a little payback be so horridly out of line? It would feel good. Sherlock closed his eyes and savored the thought.

Would serve them right. -JM

A beautiful self-fulfilling prophecy. -JM

Sherlock laughed. It would be rather ironic.

Like ice cream. -JM

Best served cold. -SH

Laughing, Sherlock decided that he needed a cigarette. Mycroft had probably thrown out all the packs he’d left in the flat.

I’d also get to see if she’s actually human. -SH

I doubt it. -JM

But yes. Red human; green alien. -JM

I’ll play clean-up. -JM

I want to see you afterward. -SH

Promise ❤ -xoJM

*~*~*

Sherlock ducked the CCTV cameras and then followed a delivery driver into Donovan’s building. He quickly found the cameras and disabled them. “Predictable,” Sherlock murmured as deductions fell into place. Decent security. Close to work. Not luxurious. Very pragmatic. However did Anderson tolerate it? He slipped his hands into black leather gloves. 

Flat 16F. Sherlock easily picked the lock. Boring. Police were frequently careless with their own security. Silently, he turned the doorknob and entered the apartment. Typical layout. Laughter came from what he predicted was the bedroom. Supposedly there was a knife in the top right drawer of her desk. Sherlock found the desk and silently opened the top right drawer.

Well, well. How did Moriarty even know these things? Ka-Bar TDI 1480 Law Enforcement. Such a pretty knife. He removed it from the hard sheath and smiled wickedly. Jim had been right. He left the sheath in the drawer and moved silently to the bedroom door.

More laughter and then Anderson spoke, “I hope he doesn’t come back. Ever.”

“Freak,” Sally added. “Dennis said he was so out of his bloody mind when they dragged his arse out of that plane.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Dennis had been the name of the co-pilot. He absentmindedly wondered what Jim knew of the man. He was so tired of all the idiots lining up to take a shot at him.

“I don’t see why they didn’t let him go,” Anderson continued. “ _We_ can get rid of Moriarty if he’s really still alive. We don’t need a drugged up druggie.”

“A drugged up freak.” Sherlock heard Sally laugh and then there was a loud thump. One or both had fallen out of bed. “I hate him so much. Stupid fucking trust-fund baby with big brother getting him out of everything. But _we’ll_ get him if he ever comes back.” They both laughed. Sherlock pushed the door open. Forcefully.

Donovan, naked, was on the floor and holding a bottle of wine. Drunk. Anderson, also naked, erect, kneeling on the bed. Also drunk. Both of their jaws fell open. “What are you doing here, fr-” Sally yelled but Sherlock stepped forward and struck her hard. She fell to the floor. He twisted and then landed two quick jabs to Anderson’s chest, knocking the air out of him. With great satisfaction Sherlock watched him fall unconscious.

Pulling out his kit, he quickly gave Anderson a lethal dose of heroin. Patting him on the cheek as he fell, he smiled. “You’ll die oblivious and happy,” he murmured. “The very oblivious you were so very good at. And happy, well, your wife will be. I hope she has a decent policy on you.”

Sherlock paused and wondered if he wasn’t doing Jim’s work for him. Would Mrs. Anderson have contracted Moriarty to eliminate her cheating husband? After a significant life insurance policy had been established? That would be brilliant. Sherlock felt a rush of pleasure course through his veins. Is this how it was for Moriarty?

Sally moaned and moved her arms as she tried to sit up. Looking about, Sherlock quickly found her camisole and used it to gag her. She struggled and managed to throw him off but he was able to grab her, throw her on the bed, cover her face with her pillow, and then lie on top of her to hold her still.

She squirmed and fought him. Sherlock found it repulsive and fought back the urge to retch. Looking about again, he found Phil’s jeans and eventually managed to bind her hands behind her back. That done, he removed the pillow and she gasped for breath. Sherlock let her. Best to start fresh. He inhaled deeply and watched Phil’s breathing slow. A feeling of satisfaction crept through his veins. His entire body felt relaxed yet energized.

“You were right, Sally,” he said while bringing up the knife. “It did all get boring.” Her eyes widened with fear. “I enjoyed working with Greg. He gave me the interesting cases. But you ruined it. You made them all hate me and doubt me while I was just doing the work faster and better than you ever could. You made it so easy for Moriarty to destroy me.” He smiled thinking of Jim. Jim wasn’t boring. Jim saved him. “I’ve seen the light. You represent everything that is wrong with the world.”

Sally shook her head frantically with denial but Sherlock continued. “Seven deadly sins, Sally. Lust.” He eyed Anderson. “Mmmmm… poor choice though. You could have done better.” She struggled against the binding again. “Envy, pride, wrath…” He lowered the knife to her stomach. “Greed, gluttony, sloth… goodbye Sally. I’ll see you in hell.”

*~*~*

Feeling an odd mixture of relaxation, euphoria, and contentment, Sherlock, covered in blood, lay down next to Sally and brought out his phone. There was blood everywhere. Sally had fought. He tossed the gloves aside and texted Jim.

It was beautiful. -SH

Told you, doll. -JM

I love you. -SH

You are me. -JM

Do you need help with the clean-up? -JM

Sherlock looked around. He could make it look good but Jim was the professional. He readied more heroin in another needle.

Probably. -SH

I’ll be right there with a crew. Stay put. No drugs. -JM

I left the door unlocked. -SH

… JM

Sherlock smiled and mainlined another dose. Jim was right. This was not boring at all. It felt good. There had been a soothing sort of rush at all the blood flowing, at her futile struggles, her panicked breathing, and watching the life leave her.

Exsanguination. -SH

Is lovely. No more drugs, Sherly. I’m almost there. -JM

Love you. -SH

Sherlock closed his eyes. He felt glorious. Coming down from adrenaline while going up with heroin was a feeling like no other. There was a sense of transformation. And completion. Jim had been right. They were just alike. And he _wasn’t_ on the side of the angels.

Sherlock was unaware of how much time passed but it was all blissful. And then Jim was there. Sherlock heard the melodious voice; the Irish was somewhat heavier than how he remembered it. Opening his eyes, he focused on the man standing in front of him. Jim was wearing his favorite Westwood and, from Sherlock’s angle, there seemed to be a halo of light around him.

Jim walked forward and then stepped onto the bed so that he was straddling Sherlock’s legs amidst all the blood. They kissed. Gripping Jim’s shoulders, Sherlock kissed him as though his life were dependent on it. Blood on the Westwood. Blood on Jim’s skin and in his hair. Blood on Sherlock’s soul.

Staring into Jim’s eyes and seeing himself in a light, Sherlock smiled. It was like coming home. “Come out of the light and into the darkness with me,” Jim murmured. Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes.


End file.
